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Tuesday, 30 September 2008

The pipes are silent.So far, every night at around 8, they start to gargle and clunk like the lava in the intestines of Satan, louder than the bowel movements in the bowels of hell. But tonight, they seem quiet - no water, rushing through them to nowhere. Perhaps my radiator is broken, but I don't need it yet, so for now I'll let it go.I'll miss the fucking thing in winter.

Monday, 29 September 2008

I sneezed again. Bloody cold. In fact, only 5 minutes ago, Max had commented on how pale and deathly - i know - i looked, to which i replied "bloody cold".

Anyway, we continued sipping coffee and generally sitting around the table in the small coffee shop. We seemed deep in thought, and the peace of early morning coffee drinking was only punctuated by my sneezes. As we sat in this gloomy silence, we both took to simultaneously staring out of the window, despondent but with a vague glimmer of hope in our eyes. Our hope was rewarded when a car, appearing from nowhere, mounted the kerb and pulled up sharply in front of the cafe. I noted it was blocking the side alley, despite clear warnings not to, but this didn't seem the time to complain. As we watched, a man jumped from the car, cocking a handgun, and ran into the cafe.

"hey!" exclaimed Max excitedly, "isn't that Ross Kemp?"The man looked nothing like Ross Kemp, and to be honest, i don't see why Ross Kemp would have to resort to robbing cafes. However, i felt charitable, and replied it could be.

"hands up!" He yelled "The next person to move, or even talk, gets shot!"To be honest, it wasn't the most impressive speech I'd ever heard, but bless him for trying. I sneezed, sadly.

"Oh!" He exclaimed - he seemed very excitable, "A wise guy, aye? Well, let's see how smart you are now! You're dead buddy!"He raised the gun and fired at me. Fortunately, i chose that moment to sneeze again, and as my head sank into my hands, the bullet sored over my head and bounced off the wall, hitting him in the leg. With a yell, he dropped down. Alerted to the sound of sirens in the distance, he turned and tried to run out of the cafe. A police car swerved in front of him, and he was quickly restrained.As he was dragged off, he once again shouted out to me:"You're a dead man! you're dead... dead!""Can we get an autograph?" Max yelled back. I should really talk to him sometime."Dead! Dead, dead, dead!" He yelled, again. Not very original, is it?

I would be worried there could be some repercussions, but he seemed pretty certain i was a zombie.Hopefully my cold will clear up soon.

Saturday, 27 September 2008

I woke up as normal, but the fuzzy, warm feeling in my head alerted me to the fact I might have a problem. Stumbling to the mirror, i looked at my head and saw the hasty stitching around my cranium... It appears that, during the night, someone snuck into my room and stole my brain. However, the sponge they replaced it with seems to be doing the job just fine.

Thursday, 25 September 2008

In the last 10 days, I've been away. I know no-one follows this, so it's not like i was missed. Anyone who knows me will think this lack of posts is because i moved to Uni. Not so... Let us go back a 1 3/7 weeks...

I reached into the wardrobe. I didn't often do this, as i don't have many clothes, but do have a pretty shallow wardrobe. However, i fancied a change.Loosing my balance, i tumbled slowly into the pit of clothing, and to my surprise, rolled out onto a mound of snow. Pulling myself to my feet, i quickly stumbled forwards, heading for a nearby lamp-post. A scruffy looking figure was nearby..."Excuse me!" I called out "Is this Narnia? Are you a friendly fawn?"

Unfortunately, it turns out he wasn't. In fact, he was an aggressive tramp who stole my watch. It appears that the wall behind my wardrobe is pretty shit and I'd fallen into the street, concussed myself, and wandered dazed into the alleyway where i was mugged. I'd actually gotten pretty far, and spend the last 10 days working as a prostitute to pay for the taxi fare home.It doesn't often snow in September.

Monday, 15 September 2008

Ding Dong!The old familiar bell rang out, filling the corridors and rooms of my home. Bloody thing, the tramp must have sneaked it back in. Anyway, I headed to see what new horrors awaited me.

I failed to see the hidden cameramen when i opened the door, and just saw the 8 foot figure in a rather ill-fitting suit.3 hours later, i watched the entire incident on Television.Camera pans in on raucous studio audience, centering on the flamboyantly suited host on stage."Welcome back ladies and gentlemen!" He roars warmly. "Now, before the break, you saw that Steve [picture of Steve appears on screen] has to get into the home of an unwitting member of the public! Now, this task is difficult enough for your average monster made of decomposing body parts, but Steve is dressed as a Jehovah's Witness!"

Of course, it's easy to see how i was fooled. Steve was rather smartly dressed, standing at the door with his copy of Watchtower under one arm. Of course, if i looked closely, i would have seen the stitching around his neck and cranium. Still, one doesn't like to stare.In the end, i let him in. He told me about God, then balloons fell out of the ceiling and he got a check for £5,000.I was glad of the company really.

Sunday, 14 September 2008

All in all, the situation could have been a lot worse for Harold. Of course, he was still stuck on the desert island, but the weather was nice, and the plane wreck would keep him in supplies for another 6 or so months: plenty of time for him to get the edible tropical bug farm up and running.

At first, he had been a little despondent when his boat had sunk, leaving him marooned on the small island. He had carried out the standard, cliched actions - building a big fire, writing "help" in rocks, and searching for a single local who he could name ridiculously - but to no avail. However, after exploring the island, he found it had fresh water, and at least some edible plants and the like. Then had come the plane crash:He had seen the plain trailing through the sky, and ran to start a fire. Unfortunately, the plane seemed to be in a spot of bother, and crashed into the ocean nearby. Harold had swam out to exploer, but it seemed the crew had parachuted out of the plane earlier. However, he found some rations, which broke up the monotony of eating coconuts, and crate after crate of sweat pants.They were also rather tasty.

Saturday, 13 September 2008

"Your highness, there are two men to see you"His supreme Highness, Thomas Lefarrel, looked at the gold-plated intercom reluctantly. With a casual flick of his finger, he sent one of the waiting servants to the device, where he pressed the talk button."Send them in"

The two men entered a few moments later, after the cursory security checks, and walked across the huge marble floor to his Lordship's regal table. As they crossed, it would have been impossible for them to miss the huge picture of Lefarrel staring benevolently across the room, or the many gold or jewel-encrusted pieces of art around the room. They were shown to a pair of imposing, red velvet seats across from Lefarrel, where - once his Highness granted permission - they sat down. As they did so, one of the servants moved silently to the open window, shutting the grant oak shutters to drown out the noise of the crowds of cheering subjects outside."And," asked Lefarrel, "how may i help you gentlemen?""Your highness," Started one man, "This has gone too far.""If you are referring to the subjection of workers in the downtown districts, it is regrettable, i admit. But it was necessary for the people to remember they owe their leader respect!""No Sir, this... Experiment""You mean the Ape-Men? If you mean to tell me it is 'against the will of God' or such, then silence! I act through the will of God, and my -""No!" Interrupt the second man, "All of this is an experiment! You are not Thomas Lefarrel, the dictator of Utoforia. In fact, Utoforia isn't even a real Island. This is all an experiment in social psychology, and it has gone too far! You are Tom Leister, you live in the East end of London, and it's time to stop this.""But..." he started, then turning "Jenkins, you've served me loyally since you were my batman in the revolutionary wars...""Actually, Jenkins is a method actor from Hull. All your staff, the crowds of admirers, the Generals who brief you daily - we faked it all. Now come home. Your family miss you, and we have to pay extra if we don't return all the furniture tonight."

There's no philosophical point to this. If we look inside ourselves, we probably recognise most of our live is built on illusions and falsehoods, it's just not always so clear what they are. Personally, I'm pretty sure I have an army of ape-men.

Friday, 12 September 2008

For days, we co-existed peacefully. Sure, we were a little distrustful of each other, but i assumed that would pass with time. Then, last Saturday afternoon, two of the wasps started to poke my house with sticks. Before i knew it, they'd gotten a hose out and totally destroyed my home. Nature's a bitch

Wednesday, 10 September 2008

Word has reached me, from my numerous high-ranking government sources, that a big Hollywood production of Postman Pat has just began. Reports are sketchy to say the least, but i understand that "postman" Pat Clifton will be played by LeVar Burton- famous for his role Geordi La Forge in Star Trek: The Next Generation. Other reports suggest that Pat's pet Jess will be played by Eastenders hard man Steve McFadden, better known as Phil Mitchell. The plot will be grittier than that of the original series, centring around Pat's attempts to escape a gang of murderous villains after he accidentally discovers a stash of heroin sent in one of his parcels.

I had a dream... A dream where black people and white people, and all the other ethnic groups of the world live and work together in my slave army, mining uranium for my tanks.And now I've achieved that aim. But as I watch them labour from my airship, I feel the familiar clenching grip of self-doubt crushing my innards. Sometimes, as i survey my Empire, i worry that I've gone wrong somewhere; that I've not grown into a man my mother could be proud of.But this is no time for doubt, this is a time for Action!And so, once more, i deploy the tanks. But still, is this what my parents wanted for me in life?I guess I'll never know.

Tuesday, 9 September 2008

Knock knock.This isn't a joke, it's onomatoepea. You see, someone is at my door again.I took out the bell and gave it to a tramp. He wasn't too happy about it, but life isn't fair.

I answered the door, as usual. The man stood there was about 5'2", bearded, long haired and dressed in a white robe. A pair of brown Converse protruded gently from under it."Hello, it's my birthday in 4 months" He said. "Because i'm Jesus." "No you're not." I replied. It wasn't even a real beard, i could see the velcro. "Yes, i am!" He retored, slightly angrly. Then, calming down and smiling serenly, he offered me a peice of card."Just give me a call if you need any help tidying the place." He said, before turning on his heel and speeding off.The card was blank. Pity really, the place is a bit of a mess.

Monday, 8 September 2008

I did my best, honestly. Unfortunately, in the end the BNP members shouted "go home", and the Poles - who'd had enough by now - went home. The BNP guests then left to hassle a passer-by of Pakistani origin.Next week; Sandpeople and Jawas - can they co-exist peacefully?

Wednesday, 3 September 2008

The doorbell rang again. What a bloody nuisance that was turning into. Of course, i could take the door away all together, but tramps might start living in the washing machine again. So, with a sigh and a heavy heart, i went to receive my visitors.

"Good day Sir, and what a lovely one it is!"I looked at the two men standing on my doorstep. The first - the speaker - was a heavyset, suited skin-headed man who looked about at home in a suit as a tomato in fruit salad. He seemed slightly ill-at-ease with his speech, and as he continued, he tried to subtly check some prompt cards hidden in his left hand."British Summer aye, you can't beat them! But you know what would make them better? If there were less brown people about, of course!""Nein!" Interrupted the second man, moustache a-bristling, "Warn him about ze Jews"I looked at the second man. he stood at 5'9", was attempting a comb-over, and looked about 119 years old. There was something familiar about him, but i couldn't place it."In a minute," the talked whispered. "We'll ease him in." Harry 'Smasher' Sedcolm, your local BNP candidate" he introduced himself, giving an almost toothless smile. He handed me some badly written paraphernalia about how my daughter was 150% more likely to be raped by a Muslim. It didn't explain what this was compaired to however.I invited them in for tea, but they didn't stay long. The older one stole all of the biscuits, and attempted to annex the living room. He was funny, I hope they call again.

Of course, that was fiction. Suggesting the BNP are in any way a racist party who would support Hitler's anti-semitism is as ridiculous as denying the Holocaust...

"Hello""Hello Timothy, it's God here... You asked me to give you a call back""Timothy? Oh, i'm sorry, you have the wrong number. Timothy is 807, this is 870.""Oh, well i'm sorry to have bothered you. Goodbye."

Tuesday, 2 September 2008

I tried some dried fruit. I expected it to be terrible, and it was. All rubbery and tasteless. It was apple flavoured apparently, but i couldn't tell. I mistook it for banana, and wondered why there was a hole in the middle.Tom said it was ballsack flavoured, but he'd know more about that than me.

I saw my old friend Pasta the other day. I haven't seen him since school, but we kept in touch now and again. I was happy to hear that he patched his differences up with Dr. Atkins before his death in 2003.

All in all, Joseph wasn't the best father to me. I remember, for instance, sitting in the living room on my 7th birthday, waiting for him to come home; hoping that he would bring me a present. Of course, he never came.In later life, i came to forgive him for these failings. Joseph Stalin wasn't my real father, and he had died in 1953. Still, a card would have been nice.